The Ridge 1919
Here on the ridge where the shrill north-easter trails
Low clouds along the snow
And in a streaming moonlit vapour veils
The peopled earth below.
Let me, O life, a little while forget
The horror of past years—
Man and his agony and bloody sweat,
The terror and the tears.
And struggle only with the mist and snow
Against the hatless wind,
Till scourged and shriven I again may go
To dwell among my kind.
